


The Guest Bedroom

by nerigby96



Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: Angst and Feels, Comfort, Crying, Implied/Referenced Crossdressing, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Partnership, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Swimming Pools, Understanding, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Tension, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 15:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21304667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: Dean's wedding is all too much for Jerry, who decides to hide himself away in a guest bedroom.He is not alone for long.
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Comments: 15
Kudos: 16





	The Guest Bedroom

Jerry leans against the door and lets out a long, shaky breath. He worried he might explode outside and suddenly had to get away, but now that he’s alone, he feels too tired to do anything. Perhaps he could hide himself here for the duration, just sit in the relative darkness of the guest bedroom and try to be quiet. Probably Patti will worry – she may even come looking for him – and he feels a pang of guilt. He shakes his head. He’ll apologise later, and he hopes she won’t ask for an explanation.

As his heart settles, he lets his eyes travel around the room. A typical guest bedroom – he should say, typical in that it’s just as luxurious as the master – and the perfect place to wait out this terrible thudding in his head. _Perfect_? He spots the flaw in this thought. _Ho-ho, that’s rich._ Of course it’s not. How could it be? Because of course he picked the worst possible room in the house.

Hanging up by the mirror are a dress and a suit.

Jeanne’s dress. Dean’s suit. Ready and waiting for the happy couple to drive off into the sunset.

A giggle threatens. He wonders how much time he has before they find him here. He knows he should leave, but he’s frozen, staring. For one delirious, terrifying second, he pictures the door bursting open, the newlyweds finding him clad in Jeanne’s dress. A choking, retching laugh escapes him, and he claps his hands to his mouth. His vision blurs. He remembers the first time Dean saw him in a dress, how for once he was nervous, worried how someone might react to seeing this skinny Jewish kid from Jersey dressed like a lady with a messy hairdo.

He remembers how Dean smiled, how his eyes twinkled, how he laughed in all the best places.

He steps further into the room. _What a joke_, he thinks, _what a gas._ But he’s not looking at the dress anymore.

Dean’s suit is pinstriped, double-breasted, nothing really to write home about, though Jerry knows how quickly his opinion will change once he sees Dean in it. His tentative fingers stroke the buttons, securely fastened. He wonders, dimly, if Dean will open them himself later, or if Jeanne will have the honour.

An honour he has never had.

Something stirs behind him. He leaps about a foot in the air and jerks around.

“What is this, hide and seek?”

Dean stands in the doorway.

“Been lookin’ all over for you.” He closes the door, shutting out the dim chatter from the wedding guests.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” he says, too quickly.

“I know that,” Dean says. “Just wondered where you were, that’s all.”

Jerry bites his fingernail.

“Jer?”

“Mm?” He looks at his partner. Dean’s dark curls are, of course, perfect. He longs to muss them. His skin is tan. Jerry wants to do something that might raise pink colour to his cheeks. Dean’s wedding suit tips Jerry over the edge. He knows he’s dressed similarly – in black, with a white tie and a matching boutonnière – but Dean looks better, which surprises absolutely no one. Jerry thinks this may be the best Dean has ever looked, and that’s no mean feat. 

“You all right?”

“Sure,” he says.

He thinks about Jeanne. He thinks about all she’ll get to do with Dean, all the words she’ll hear, that Jerry never will. Jealousy is an emotion Jerry knows all too well where Dean is concerned, but when he met Jeanne it slapped him in the face, knocked him to the ground, and sat squarely on his chest. Jerry knows she doesn’t like him, and why should she? It’s a free country. Let her hate him, even, if she wants, though he suspects right now he hates himself enough for both of them.

“I get it,” Dean says. “Lots of people. Lots of noise.” He nods. “Wish it could be smaller, huh?”

But Jerry isn’t listening. His feet are moving almost of their own accord. He goes to Dean. He stands close. He takes the lapel of Dean’s wedding suit between his thumb and forefinger and strokes. Dean’s head is titled to one side, a curious expression on his face. Not shocked or uncomfortable or confused, just… curious.

“What goes on here?” he asks, pleasantly enough.

Jerry wets his lips and says in his Idiot voice, “Don’t I getta kiss the groom?”

Dean smiles fondly and whispers, “Kiss the _bride_, Jer.”

“Her _too_? Well, if you insist.”

Dean throws back his head and laughs. Jerry watches him, watches his Adam’s apple bob, and he feels his heart swell and almost burst. Dean’s delight subsides. He looks at Jerry, who tries to smile. Has he congratulated Dean yet? He can’t remember. He knows he should, but the words won’t come. If he opens his mouth, he might say something he’ll regret. He might ask Dean to hold him, or kiss him, or lie down with him on the bed. Suddenly, he feels convinced that these silent pleas are etched on his face, and have been all day, every day since he met Dean.

_No wonder she doesn’t like me._

But if Dean knows the terrifying notions in his partner’s mind, he says nothing. Instead, he takes Jerry’s shoulders in his large, warm hands and kisses him hard on the mouth. It is brief and chaste and utterly perfect. When Dean pulls back, Jerry is too stunned to follow, though his heart, his mind, his very blood implores him. Dean beams at Jerry, brown eyes twinkling.

“Thanks, Jer,” he says.

“Huh?” Jerry can hardly believe his mouth still works. “What for?”

“Being here today.”

“Well, sure,” Jerry says, and because what little rationality he had is gone, he lets the Idiot take over: “I’m the best boy, ain’t I?”

Dean chuckles, and Jerry gathers his wits enough to say, “Anyhow, I’ll always be here for you.”

Jerry thinks he sees Dean shut down a little at that. _Too much?_ he wonders. Dean’s eyes flicker and dart and struggle to find something concrete to grasp. It’s too hard to watch, so Jerry slips his arms around Dean’s neck and hugs him. There is a moment of stillness, perhaps no more than a second, but enough for Jerry to worry he has ruined everything. Then Dean’s hands come to rest on his hips, and they hold each other for a while. Maybe Dean speaks comfort into Jerry’s ear, or maybe he stays silent. Maybe Jerry says _I love you_, or maybe he keeps that to himself. He’s said it before, but here, hidden away in the bedroom, the chatter and laughter of wedding guests dim and almost forgotten, swallowed up in the warm ether of their still embrace, it might mean something else, something different, something a man shouldn’t like to hear from another man, especially if he’s just been married to a beautiful girl. Maybe Dean won’t like it if Jerry says it now.

Still, maybe he says it anyway.

They pull apart. Neither man lingers. Dean takes out his handkerchief and wipes Jerry’s face, gently. Then he tucks the white cotton into Jerry’s hand, squeezes, and turns to the door. “You comin’?” he asks.

“Sure,” Jerry says. “Gimme a sec.”

Dean nods. He opens the door, allowing a wave of content and easy conversation into the room, and then he’s gone, shutting out the sound with a soft _click_.

Jerry covers his face. He tries to ignore the heady aroma of Woodhue that hangs about him, and the way his mouth tingles, the way his head spins. His knuckles go white, gripping Dean’s handkerchief as though someone might take it from him. It’s damp and wrinkled and smells like his partner. He stuffs it into his pocket.

He has to do something. 

_No_, he thinks. _You don’t_ have _to do anything, except go back down and stand with Patti and wish the happy couple a good time on their honeymoon._

He has to scream, to shout, to break something.

_You have to be a grownup. You have to suck it up and be a man._

The Idiot rattles the bars of his cage and sticks out one spindly arm, jabbing the air. Jerry tries to ignore it, tries to think about his partner, about the wedding, about his _wife_, Joey, Dean’s got a _wife_, but his feet are carrying him over to the happy couple’s honeymoon outfits, to Dean’s going-away suit.

_It’s too big_, he thinks, but he’s already taking his clothes off. _Dean’ll be mad_, he thinks, but he’s already unbuttoned the jacket. _You’ll be disqualified_, he thinks, but he’s already in the hallway, heart thudding, nervous giggles bubbling in his throat.

He emerges on to the patio.

“Hey, Dean!”

Heads swivel. He sees his partner, incredulous, and his new wife, with a smile that doesn’t touch her eyes; she knows what he’s going to do. _She knows_, he thinks, terrified.

“Happy wedding, ya greaseball!”

He launches himself over the water and seems to hang suspended in the early autumn air for an eternity. Then he drops. He explodes into the pool like a bomb. He’s dragged under. His nose and ears are plugged; all he hears is the heavy swollen silence of water thrumming in his skull. His coccyx bumps the tiled bottom of the pool, and he opens his eyes, stares up at the rippling surface. Blurred faces, mouths gaping like pits, peer into the depths. Jerry’s eyes sting, but still he stares. He wonders, briefly, what it might be like to open his mouth, to try to breathe and swallow water. There’s no fear in this thought; only a morbid curiosity, a distant meditation that it might be better for everyone if he didn’t re-emerge. 

But already he’s rising. His head breaks the surface, and people are laughing. He shakes himself, dislodges water, and spins around, searching for Dean. He sees Patti, who stands nearby, a hand over her mouth. He sees Jeanne, who looks aghast, alone.

But Dean’s gone.

_Kill me_, he thinks. _Somebody please kill me before—_

He’s scrabbling for the diving board, desperate to heave himself out of the water. Rivulets tumble and trickle down the suit, which clings to his gangling form. His legs paddle uselessly. A camera flashes. One of the guests, a guy who’s laughing so hard he appears to be in pain, approaches, holds out a hand to help the Idiot from the pool.

And then another splash, bigger than his own.

People shriek and burst into fresh laughter. Jerry’s would-be saviour collapses into hysteria.

Jerry drops from the board, turns. He blinks in disbelief, in delight, in some other emotion he can’t name.

His partner’s curly head breaks the surface of the water.

Their eyes meet. Dean is beaming, and Jerry resists the urge to swim into his arms and plaster his face with kisses. He could get away with it, he knows. Anything for a laugh, they would say later. But still he resists.

Dean throws up his arms and says, “Two can play at this game, pally!”

He’s wearing Jerry’s suit.

Now Jerry does swim to him, ignoring the clamouring guests, the desperate entreaties for both of them to get out, you idiots, what do you think you're doing, anyhow?

Dean's eyes sparkle. Jerry knows what he's going to doing and lets him, welcomes those big hands on the top of his head. They hold him underwater lightly, but he knows his partner is putting on a show above the surface, pulling faces, pretending to struggle. He lets go, and Jerry emerges. They're so close, both soaking wet and panting, that Jerry thinks for a second he really will kiss Dean. But then his partner shoves him, splashes him, and swims for the lip of the pool. Jerry pulls a face, exaggerated indignance, and goes after him.

"You all saw!" the Idiot shrieks. "He's tryna kill me!"

"_Tryna_? What kind of English is this?"

"Forgive me if I got a little water on the brain here!"

They have an audience; the act comes naturally. Dean and Jerry don't see them. As they argue and tease, they see only each other. Jerry feels the electricity that crackles between them and wonders it doesn't set their sodden clothes alight, doesn't burn them from the inside out. It's dangerous, frightening. But it's irresistible, too, intoxicating. Like a moth that can't help but flutter toward its fiery death, Jerry feels himself drawn to this man who could so easily, unwittingly destroy him. But maybe it's too late. Maybe Jerry is already lost.

Maybe he doesn't care.

He thinks about Jeanne. He remembers the look in her eye when they first met, how her gaze flicked from Jerry to Dean and back again, that blatant understanding of something that Jerry doesn't think even he understood at the time. Two years on, and maybe he finally sees what she saw that day. He should be kinder to Jeanne, he knows. How strange it must be to marry someone who spends all of his time with a man who clings.

"Tell me about Dean," she said to him once, on that rarest of occasions when they were alone together.

"What about him?" He wanted to leave, wanted the conversation to be over. He wanted Dean.

"Anything." She looked at him closely. "There must be something you know that no one else does."

He frowned. "Why must there?"

"You _are_ his friend, aren't you? It's not strictly professional."

He wanted to scream, to run away and hide.

"I guess not. Dean..." He checked himself. "I'm like his kid brother."

She smiled, but it didn't touch her eyes. "That's sweet."

"Yeah," Jerry said. "I guess."

She watched him; he squirmed under her gaze.

"I don't think I have anything interesting for you," he said. Then, with a bravery sprung from a hidden well, he looked her in the eye. "I love him, that's all."

Her mouth twitched. She bowed her head a little. "Yes," she said. "I can tell."

Dean came back then, from wherever he had been, and the conversation moved on; but Jerry couldn't relax, found himself shooting glances at them both, watching them watch each other.

_When she's here, he doesn't look at me._ And God, he couldn't think like that, couldn't even begin to consider what _that_ meant, so he shoved it away, swallowed his discomfort.

Now, soaking wet by the pool, Dean's eyes are fixed on Jerry.

A part of him - that selfish, jealous part that rears his head when he and Dean are not alone together – wants to see the look on Jeanne's face.

Another part of him already knows; he's looked that way enough himself too many times to count.

But it's all right. He tells himself it's all right. To feel this way about your partner of three years, to worry this much about his wife's place in his life, it's natural. It's all right.

He almost believes it.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by these images from Dean and Jeanne's wedding day:  



End file.
